


Intermezzo

by strawberriesandtophats



Series: Disaster Management has always been their forte [17]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Body Image, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Morse finally leaves the police, Not Canon Compliant, accidental Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26284705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: “Jakes, did you drive three hours just to pay me a visit-““Sure,” Jakes said, as if they could not get thrown into jail at any moment if anyone actually knew what they got up to when they were alone. As if they were not already inside a bloody police station.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Series: Disaster Management has always been their forte [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/511345
Comments: 18
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

Morse had lost count of how many cups of tea he’d finished this cold Friday evening, piling his out tray with now-filled-in reports and typed pages about past cases that he’d solved.

It was dark outside, it was only the lamp on his desk and the one on Jakes’s old desk that gave off any light. But it was better to get all this done when the station was quiet, instead of full of loud police officers, suspects, victims and all the noises that came with them.

Ringing phones, chatter, pens scratching paper, mumbled curses and footsteps on the creaking boards in the hallway that had never been replaced.

He reached for his pen again, flipping open his notebook to double-check the facts of what one of the suspects had said before typing up the report.

There was no one there to interrupt him with questions about past or current cases, or trying to sneak their own paperwork on his desk.

Thursday had been on edge this past week, after Morse had completed and hopefully passed his Inspector exam. For two years now, his exam paper had gone mysteriously missing, and he’d not been allowed to retake it until the next round.

He’d snapped at Morse when he’d seen that he was not on his way home, but making himself comfortable at his desk so that he could finish up his paperwork. His tone had been distinctly sharp, telling Morse that he knew perfectly well that they were not paid for overtime.

It was the same tone that he’d used this morning after he’d seen Morse snacking on homemade shortbread that Dr. DeBryn had brought to the staff room and handed out, commenting that it was clear that Morse would have trouble handling his own cases and having his own Sergeant to wrangle if he could not control his own weight.

He’d even given Morse’s stomach a pointed glance through the layers of Morse’s coat, suit, shirt and undershirt.

Morse had almost bit his lip bloody, not answering back that he no longer had any patience with having to witness how angry Thursday was with him for refusing to court his daughter, for refusing to stop being too well-read and too much of an oddball.

And for refusing to leave Jakes.

That was something that Thursday considered to be simply a deeply stupid decision, as it was clearly a relationship that they should both gave grown out of long ago. And that insisting on continuing this off-limits affair was a sign of fatal stubbornness and inability to make sensible choices instead of just letting your dick think for you instead of using your brain.

For years, Morse had listened to his worries about leaving the police behind, about his crumbling marriage, about his fears of aging. And his frustration about someone like Morse replacing him, too educated and soft in his opinion to be able to make it on his own.

It had gotten so bad that their coworkers had not only started to notice this treatment, but had begun to stand up for Morse, pulling Thursday aside to tell him that implying that Morse was a no-good slut was not only deeply unprofessional behavior, but factually wrong as he was as close to being engaged as someone could get without actually wearing a ring.

They’d pointed out that he was going to meetings for his alcoholism, taking medication and singing in a choir as a hobby. And actually eating food instead of just forgoing it all the time.

Bright had given Thursday a warning because of his behavior and spoken to Morse in a kind tone, suggesting that he could distance himself from Thursday when he was in these moods, as he did not want to leave the nick or Oxford to do so permanently.

Morse had found another silver hair in his comb this morning, and instead of staying by Thursday’s side as he went into the pub for some lunch, he’d slipped into a closet of a bookshop and come out with faded Agatha Christie paperbacks. Sometimes, a man had to treat himself if he was going to get through a stack of paperwork in one evening.

It had been easier to finish all this work when Jakes had been doing the lion’s share of it, looking at him and joking around.

He didn’t tell that to anyone, not when the place emptied and he’d kept on scribbling down notes and smoking because he had not eaten much at all today and this was better than raiding the cupboards for biscuits.

For years, he had thought that it didn’t matter much if he ate regular meals or slept much. The knowledge that he would die young had been a part of his life ever since his mother had passed away and his father had not cared to feed him, nor clothe him, or pay any attention at all to how hard he was studying to get out of that house. But having Jakes around meant that he did try, even if he often failed.

He kept his head down when he heard familiar footsteps and smelled a cologne that brought his mind back to doing illegal things in his tiny bedsit. He’d been working so long and eaten so little that the possibility of hallucinations is higher than it should have been.

Heart thumping too loudly in his chest and his head swimming, he put his pen down.

“Am I dreaming?” asked a voice that he had not heard in months, so beloved that for a moment he did not dare to believe that he’d heard it. “Morse?”

Jakes stood in the doorway, snowflakes in his hair and on his caramel coat and a grin on his face. He was looking at Morse as if he was seeing something beautiful, instead of a tired and overworked police officer.

“Am I?” Morse asked when Jakes approached him, looking around the open office space as if he was trying to find a criminal hiding underneath one of the desks. “What are you doing here?”

“Is Thursday here?” Jakes asked, as they both heard Bright talking to someone loudly over the phone in his office.

“Oh,” Morse said, feeling his heart sink. If Jakes had come all this way, then it was only right that he was here to get some proper advice from someone far more seasoned than Morse. “No, he’s gone. But I can phone-“

“No, no,” Jakes said, hurriedly. “I was just asking because I was thinking about whisking you away, and that is much easier if Thursday isn’t around.”

“Whisking me away?” Morse asked, narrowing his eyes. “You-“

“Oh, there you are,” Jakes joked, almost throwing his head back in delight as he leaned on his old desk. “I’ve missed your outraged face-“

“Jakes, did you drive three hours just to pay me a visit-“

“Sure,” Jakes said, as if they could not get thrown into jail at any moment if anyone actually knew what they got up to when they were alone. As if they were not already inside a bloody police station.

He leaned in as if to share a secret.

And Morse, who had spent most of his life fighting the beast that was loneliness, leaned towards him, so close that he could see the melting snow in Jakes’ hair and breathe in the scent of cigarettes that always clung to him.

“Listen, the suspect that we’ve got is a misplaced Oxford professor, and the only reason I understand anything that he’s saying is because I’ve spent so much time with you. And, I could spend a whole week in some library or talking to literature professors about old Shakes, or the Romantic poets or weird old plays, or I could just…spend some quality time with you.”

“Teamwork makes the dream work, and all that?” Morse suggested, echoing what Jakes had told him many times.

“Exactly,” Jakes said. “Now that snobbish git also kept talking about some Christie crime novel, and I know I’ve read it, but I haven’t’ got it-“

Morse rummaged around in his desk drawer until he found a whole heap of those, spreading them out on the desk like a deck of cards.

“Oh, I’ve missed this,” Jakes breathed out, patting him on the shoulder as if they had both won some kind of an award. “Endeavour, do you know how long-“

“Better to save you the time it would’ve taken you to go through all those second-hand shops,” Morse said. “It’s just more efficient.”

Jakes looked at him as he wanted to kiss him right then and there.

“That one,” he said, pointing at a coffee-stained copy of _Murder on the Orient Express_ , moving aside _The Secret of Chimneys_. “The one with the train and the young stupid couple.”

“There are quite a lot of those in her novels,” Morse said. “A bit of a staple.”

“Love can make people do all sorts of weird things,” Jakes said, pocketing the book. Then he slung an arm around Morse’s shoulders, looking around the room again to see if anyone was walking around and liable to see what they were up to.

But no one was there.

His fingers pressed against the fabric of Morse’s suit, steady and comforting.

“I have a feeling that we might have a lot of suspects,” Morse said. “If that is the book that our new friend is quoting.”

“And they are all shifty bastards,” Jakes said. “It doesn’t help any that the people that I’m working with aren’t nearly as good as you are in reading between the lines of what is being said.”

“You aren’t bad at it either,” Morse said.

“Yeah, well, abused kids make good detectives,” Jakes muttered. “They’ve always gotta be looking out for trouble, reading the room and all that.”

“I know how it is,” Morse said, his voice low as well.

“Hm,” Jakes said, his hand moving so that he was cupping the back of Morse’s neck, fingers stroking the bare skin.

Morse closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the wind howling outside and leaning as much into Jakes’s touch as he could.

It was only when they heard Bright bustling around in his office that Jakes let go of him. But they did not move apart.

Jakes busied himself with piling the paperbacks on Morse’s desk into a tower and Morse ran a hand through his hair again, his cheeks still warm.

“Right,” Morse said, hearing the smile in his own voice. “Going to kidnap me, are you, like old times?”

“A little bit,” Jakes said, wandering over to where Morse had left his coat and the scarf that Jakes had once gifted him, shoving it into his hands and telling him that he was fed up with seeing how cold Morse was all the time. “Kept talking about wild justice, too, that bloke.”

His voice was slightly raised, as if he was making up for their moment earlier, making sure that those that might have heard them would only report back that they’d been talking about a case.

“That’s a reference to Francis Bacon,” Morse answered, putting his papers and pen to the side. “It’s a case about revenge, then.”

“Telling on himself, is he?” Jakes asked, handing over the clothes.

“Might be,” Morse said. “Sounds like someone who thinks that they are so clever that they can get away with murder and have fun peppering their language with references that they think will go over everybody else’s heads.”

“Not with you around, they don’t,” Jakes stated. “Should we head over to your place, perhaps a stop on the way to get something to eat?”

“At this hour?”

“I know a place that’s got some good coffee and pastries,” Jakes said, clearly already having decided that they were going there. “You look like you need some.”

Morse felt the urge to tell Jakes that pastries were not something that he should be consuming, but his head already felt woozy from hunger.

Memories of how gently Jakes had always treated those insecurities of his rose up in his mind, demanding attention. The last time that Jakes had visited Oxford, they’d ended up in a pile of tangled limbs on his narrow bed, making the most of their time together.

“That sounds about right,” Morse said and was rewarded with a deep hum of approval. “I’m not going to say no to that.”

Morse stood up, feeling self-conscious about how Jakes could no doubt see countless changes. He raked his hand though his already messy curls, deeply aware of how pale and drawn he’d looked in the mirror this morning.

But Jakes just put out the lamps and made admiring noises at how much work Morse had gotten done that evening as Morse got dressed, carefully buttoning his new coat.

“Can’t shake the feeling that I should tell you something silly, like: ‘Honey, I’m home,” Jakes said, a laugh on his lips as he wrapped an arm around Morse’s waist. “Been a long time since I’ve been here.”

He did not dig his fingers into the fabric, but simply rested his hand there.

Morse could see how the rest of the night would play out, from the sticky sweetness of cinnamon sugar on his tongue mixed with the bitter coffee, to the feeling of Jakes parting his thighs and muttering praises in his ear. The sound of Jakes’ ragged breathing in the air, Morse’s hands on bare skin.

“I’m glad that you are back,” Morse told Jakes. I’ll do my best to make it worth your while.”

“Will you?” Jakes asked, grinning.

Morse found himself grinning back, letting himself be held properly. Perhaps in thirty years or so, a person like Jakes could have allowed himself to lean in to press a kiss to his partner’s cheek.

But for now, he waved at Bright, when he poked his head out of his office to see the both of them heading out.

“I promise that I’ll return him,” Jakes promised, as if they were eloping, not letting go of Morse at all. “Goodnight, Mr. Bright.”

“Good night, gentlemen,” Bright said, watching as they hurried into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

Morse woke up in Jakes’ old car as the breeze from the open window ruffled his hair, carrying that faint scent of apple crumble and good coffee that spoke of autumn.

He’d slept for most of the ride home to Oxford, lulled to sleep by the horrible pop music that Jakes always wanted to listen to on the radio. Most of the songs had been about love, so he hadn’t wanted to change the station to something else, hearing Jakes singing along.

Instead he’d closed his eyes and let his head fall back, breathing in the smell of tobacco and the carrot cake crumbs that were all that was left over of the small cake that Morse had baked one evening.

It had been a rollercoaster of a week, where the officers at Jakes’ station had mostly just accepted with a shrug that Jakes had straight up kidnapped a Sergeant from a different nick and brought him to them. And then that Jakes had promptly began to boss him around like a baby Constable all the time.

Not everyone had been happy with some stranger barging in on their investigation, but as Morse had immediately stomped over to organize the paperwork and go over old statements from the suspects, they had accepted that at least he was pretty damn useful. It also helped that Morse obeyed every order that Jakes made, wrote a new time-line for the case when a few new key elements had been discovered, and washed the dishes in the staff room.

He and Jakes had worked together like a dream, with Morse translating what the main suspects were actually saying by making literary and musical references every three minutes, and Jakes doing the more down-to-earth investigating.

Armed with a heap of Agatha Christie novels and a Shakespeare omnibus, as well as a few textbooks, Morse mostly acted as a specialist that stayed out of everyone else’s way.

Then one of the suspects made the fatal mistake of making a _Sherlock Holmes_ reference in front of the Chief Super, having otherwise spent his time making references to historical figures, Jacobean revenge plays and various Christie novels.

The case had been a gold-star, textbook case of victims of a single unsolved crime banding together for revenge after that, with the Chief Super almost throwing Morse at the suspects to make sure that they could arrest all of them for admitting to their crimes via literary references.

Solving it had gone as smoothly as a hot spoon through ice-cream, because Inspector Jakes had somehow managed to gather all the suspects into one room, Poirot-style, to drag them all.

In the end, even the officers that had given Morse the stink-eye had softened up when they’d seen him slip two extra packs of cigarettes into Jakes’ coat, as well as pouring him a cup of coffee when they were both in the staff room. Not to mention the heaps of paperwork that he’d finished for Jakes when he’d been out and about, chasing down leads and speaking to the Chief Super.

And now they were on their way back home in Oxford, returning Morse like a parcel.

They’d packed his suitcase in a hurry just before they’d had to leave in the morning, both half-dressed and taking giddy breaks to kiss each other in between throwing shirts and socks and spare underthings into the suitcase.

Most of the clothing had been bought that week on Jakes’ insistence, until Morse had five new shirts that actually fit him, two warm pullovers, a heap of dress socks and some very practical underwear.

He’d gone out to buy a new suit on his own, though.

It was roomier than the one he’d bought before it, but since his old suits that still fit were becoming shabby, he’d decided to splurge on a nice one after solving such a big case.

He’d come home to Jakes’ flat, having put the suit on in the bathroom of a small café on his way from the shops.

Had he seen it, Thursday would undoubtedly have noted that it was new and a bit fancier than the ones Morse had in his closet.

Jakes had declared that he looked handsome in his new suit, which had made Morse blush like a schoolboy. He had made a whole speech about how it was a classic color, how flattering the cut was on him, and how useful it was to have a suit that you could wear everywhere. By the end of it, Morse’s face was about as hot as a volcano and he’d pulled Jakes into a kiss that went on for far too long, as Jakes had taken the opportunity to fondle him thoroughly.

It still surprised Morse that he wanted to do that, even after all these years, when the bloom of the rose should have faded, as people said.

But then again, Jakes had spent the night looking at Morse as if he was a feast to be enjoyed, taking pleasure in how relaxed and carefree Morse was after they’d done a good job that day, wrapping up the case.

“They don’t make fun of you for being single over there?” Morse found himself asking, when Jakes parked the car outside of the station in Oxford.

He had not heard a peep about any of that, no one had pressed him for details about former girlfriends or little scandals.

But being wracked over the coals by Thursday about his love life had become so normal that the absence of any of those barbs or jokes had been a stark contrast.

“Nah,” Jakes said, unbuckling his seatbelt. “They leave me alone. Think I’ve got a fiancé back home in Oxford.”

“Oh?” Morse asked, his whole body stilling. “I didn’t know that we were engaged.”

“Would be, if we could, right?” Jakes asked, lighting a cigarette. There was a searching look in his eyes, but also something vulnerable, as asking this question had cracked him open like a egg at breakfast.

“Yeah,” Morse said, hearing how shaky his voice was. “I’d like to think so.”

They did not kiss, but Morse took Jakes’s hand and squeezed it. Jakes covered Morse’s hand with his own, not mentioning how watery Morse’s eyes were.

“And it stops people from suggesting that I’d find myself someone here,” Jakes said, blowing out smoke. “No one asks questions when I work too much, because they think that I’m saving up for a house.”

“Clever of you,” Morse said. “Wish that I could do the same.”

“I even have the ring,” Jakes told him, as if divulging a great secret. Which of course, he was doing. “You think that putting it on would make Thursday shut up for once?”

His smile was boyish and charming, exactly the one that Morse had become so familiar with over the years.

Morse wanted to ask if he was joking, but there was a serious set to Jakes’s shoulders, just as it had been every night this past week, when he’d kissed down Morse’s soft stomach or held him underneath the cool sheets. 

“I think it might,” Morse managed.

“Bright’s going to pull me aside, tell me not to break your heart,” Jakes said.

Morse stared at him, watching as Jakes rummaged around in the inner pocket of his fine suit and found a tiny box.

He did not move; he did not want to move. He wanted to remember this for a long time, as if these few moments were a flower that he could press between the pages of a big book. And that he could pull that book off the shelf whenever he wanted, so to look at that flower.

“Nothing flashy, but it made me think of that evening where we ended up in that field at sunset,” Jakes rambled, opening the box. “And almost froze because we couldn’t stop stargazing.”

In it was a simple gold ring.

“Didn’t go for the diamond, not on an Inspector’s pay,” Jakes said, still talking because Morse was speechless for once in his life. “What do you think?”

“Put it on,” Morse said, the words so low as to barely be audible. His voice was so raw that it startled even himself, hearing the unshed tears of years in it.

Jakes nodded seriously, as if he’d been given an order.

It slid onto Morse’s finger easily, the band itself so thin that the ring itself would barely be noticeable. But he knew it was there, the metal cold against his skin.

“You alright?” Jakes asked, when Morse stared at his hand for a long while. “Because, you can just take it off-“

“No,” Morse said, looking up. His hand found Jakes’s hand and grabbed at it, distantly aware that his eyes were leaking as if he was a malfunctioning faucet. “No, I’m just…you know how it is when you are at a concert and it’s so good that you never want the music to end?”

Jakes gave him a searching look, knowing that this was a Moment in their relationship as much as the ring sliding on that finger had been one.

“And then they play your favorite song in the world, and you never thought that you’d hear it live, not in a million years?”

“Oh,” Jakes said, a smile blooming on his face. “You feel like we’ve won the World Cup. And you can barely believe that we did it.”

“Yeah,” Morse said, grinning back. “That’s it.”

Jakes opened the car door as Morse wiped his face with his sleeve, letting him have a moment to recover.

“Never thought that I’d be somebody’s World Cup,” Jakes said, when Morse was out of the car and breathing in the fresh air. “Or surprise favorite song.”

He giving him a decidedly cunning smile, as if Morse was a prize that he had set his eye on a long time ago and was not planning on ever giving it up.

He opened the trunk of the car, handing over Morse’s suitcase.

“Let’s go inside,” Morse said. “I want to see the look on Thursday’s face when he’s done ranting about how he did not agree to my temporary transfer and sees the ring.”

“Bright agreed to it,” Jakes answered. “He’ll stare down anyone who tries to make a scene.”

Jakes threw his cigarette on the ground, stepping on it before following Morse inside.

Ready for anything.


	3. Chapter 3

“You could leave the police,” Jakes said, late on a Saturday night in Morse’s bedsit. It was far less dingy than the one he’d first visited and Morse had actually invested in a good mattress. It was clean, the appliances worked and it even had a good amount of sunlight. “Start over.”

There was barely a scrap of food in the whole place, not counting the apples and the tea tin on the counter. Jakes was used to seeing at least something else around. At least some eggs and cheese, maybe some tins and a bit of bread.

Morse stopped buttoning his nightshirt, looking up. The long sleeves covered the bandages on his arms, which Jakes had changed wordlessly when they had started bleeding through earlier. The gold ring was still on Morse’s finger, just as the candlelight in his eyes was still there. But it was flickering more each day.

Jakes had gotten several phone calls from Dr. DeBryn about how Morse had largely stopped eating when he was working, how he’d sometimes go non-verbal for hours at a time and speak to himself in Morse-code by tapping on his desk when he was thinking or doing paperwork.

Thursday did not leave him alone, lashing out harder now that he saw the ring on Morse’s finger every day. As ever, he considered it evidence of foolishness and arrogance to still hang onto a relationship that was illegal. Especially when, in his opinion, Morse should have married a long time ago. Should have settled down with a nice girl and found some stability in having a family. He did not like the idea of Morse and Jakes being their own little family, refusing to leave each other.

Perhaps on some level, he thought that Morse was not obeying his orders, as he’d spent years trying to get Morse to date his daughter, who was now engaged to Strange. It was a good match, they both had several interests in common and got along well.

But the last time that Jakes had visted, he’d seen how visibly angry Thursday got when Jakes and Morse had congratulated Strange and Joan on their engagement, shaking hands with them. As if he’d expected Morse to show some sign of displeasure at the news instead of just smiling and staying to chat.

Jakes had stuck around the station, helping the younger officers and chatting with Bright about how life was different in the other station, but that it was good to go home sometimes.

Morse had ducked his head at that, handing out tea.

Thursday did not threaten to arrest them both for sodomy, but he made his displeasure known at every turn when Morse did or said something that he disliked. And in response, Morse kept internalizing the message of how he did not belong in that station, no matter how hard he worked. He would try to make himself smaller, hunching over his work in silence at his desk to try to get some sliver of peace.

Jakes had seen the uneasy look in the other officers’ eyes as they told him how Thursday snapped at Morse, taking out his anger at him for no reason but that he was an easy and available target. They pulled him aside to tell him how they’d heard Bright raise his voice at the Chief Inspector for behaving like a bully and telling him in no uncertain terms that if he did not stop, there would no longer be a job for him at this station.

“Endeavour?” Jakes asked, seeing the far-away look in Morse’s eyes. “Did you hear me?”

“I don’t know how to do anything else,” Morse said quietly, turning his ring round and round and giving Jakes an unconvincing smile. “Better just to get used to pretty much everyone taking one look at me and decide that they want to ‘destroy that twink,’ I guess.”

“You know how to do lots of other things,” Jakes said evenly. “You could become a teacher; you’ve told me that you’d like that. And sell some of those novels that you’ve written under a different name-“

“A nom de plume?” Morse asked, as Jakes made his way across the bedsit and lit a cigarette for Morse and himself. The novels had lots of sex in them, but Jakes figured that it just made them more sellable to the right people.

“That’s it,” Jakes said, handing over the cigarette. “I bet we could buy a house together sooner if that was our situation.”

He grinned at Morse, lightly elbowing him.

“How optimistic of you,” Morse said as Jakes sat down beside him on the bed. His smile was not as wobbly, he stopped cradling his teacup and put it on the nightstand instead.

“I’m sure that lots of kids in Oxford would love for you to tutor them,” Jakes said. “You still remember all that Latin and history and know all about old Shakes. Even if you’d just take an hour or two to help them prepare for exams or write essays…”

Morse smoked his cigarette, not wincing when Jakes put a hand on his shoulder.

The silence stretched out between them.

“I’m already used to having a Sergeant around that I train,” Morse mused. “Teaching kids can’t be that different from…”

“The mystical art of policing’” Jakes suggested.

“Right,” Morse said, watching as Jakes tapped his cigarette and ash fell into the ashtray. “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve written my resignation letter.”

Jakes nodded. He could believe that just fine.

“You’ve had enough,” Jakes said. “Everyone can understand that.”

“Maybe I’m just exaggerating and being overdramatic,” Morse said, shaking his head. “Everyone has bad weeks at work.”

“Yes,” Jakes agreed. “But being picked up by your collar by your boss and shaken like a ragdoll for flinching at his outburst isn’t a good time for anyone. He didn’t just slap you once, Morse. He kept raging at you even when you’d hit your head on the way down and were lying on the ground.”

Strange and Trewlove had told him as much, standing guard outside Morse’s hospital room. They’d looked frightened, like the tall ship that they’d been sailing on now resembled a swiss cheese.

“I don’t know what I did that made him boil over,” Morse said, looking down at his hands. “I barely remember what I was saying…”

“It was only a matter of time until things boiled over,” Jakes said.

Morse hummed, his hands ghosting over his arms. As soon as Jakes had introduced himself as a family member the nurses had told him that Morse had raised his arms to protect his face and Thursday’s blows had opened up half-healed wounds.

“It doesn’t matter what made him do it,” Jakes said, squeezing his shoulder. “You weren’t asking for a beating or ‘to be put in your place.’ For goodness sake, you were finishing up some report at your desk like a good officer-“

Morse flushed at the praise.

And then he became embarrassed by that, but leaned into Jakes’ touch as Jakes stroked the back of Morse’s neck before patting his back.

“Maybe it was the ring that was the last straw?” Morse wondered, looking down at his hand. “He’s been angry about that ever since he first saw it. Thinks we are flaunting our relationship in front of the law.”

“I don’t care what he thinks of the ring,” Jakes said. “And he’s got no place telling us what to do in our personal lives. We’re not his kids.”

“How did you find out about all this, anyhow?” Morse asked, looking suspicious as he touched the bruises on his cheek and the tender-looking area around his right eye. He pulled at his old nightshirt, looking self-conscious.

“Bright called me,” Jakes said, taking a drag of his cigarette. “So, I told my Chief Super that my fiancée had been sent to the hospital and drove to Oxford.”

Almost broken a few traffic laws, but Morse did not have to know that.

“You didn’t just happen to be in town, then?” Morse asked, clearly trying to joke.

“Nah,” Jakes said. “Besides, I don’t just invite anyone to go out for pasta.”

Morse had not been able to hide how emotional he’d been when he’d woken up to see that Jakes had shown up and Jakes had not bothered to hide how relieved he was to see him. Trewlove and Strange had only been allowed inside when Morse had calmed down.

He’d only left the hospital when the doctors and nurses had decided that since his wounds were properly wrapped and his concussion was mild, it would be alright for Jakes to take him out for some food in a quiet place and then to drive him home. They’d instructed him to keep an eye on Morse, which Jakes had taken as an order, to their pleasure.

“Hm,” said Morse, stubbing out his cigarette. “I’m pretty sure that I’ve never eaten so much garlic in one sitting before.”

Jakes shrugged. Morse had eaten that piece of lasagna like a man that had lived off coffee and cigarettes for weeks on end. Which was more than likely, given how his appetite often waned when he was miserable.

Jakes had come home to Oxford often enough to find that Morse’s weight had dropped an alarming amount in no time at all. But at the moment he looked rather similar to how he’d looked when they had first met, slightly soft with his curls all over the place. The dark circles underneath his eyes were still in place, so was the searching expression.

Sure, he was older, but they both were Inspectors now. And there was a certain victory in having managed to grown up, in having had the that sort of time given to them.

“You’ve brushed your teeth twice, so it is not like I’m going to refuse to kiss you,” he said, blowing out smoke and put what was left of the cigarette into the ashtray.

He pulled Morse closer.

“Alright?” he asked, taking off his jacket and loosening his tie.

Morse nodded, pulling him into a kiss. It was not the scorching kind that Jakes had imagined on the way to Oxford, gripping the steering wheel and imaging just how badly Morse had been injured if he’d been sent to the hospital.

He unbuttoned Morse’s nightshirt slowly, glancing at the locked door and the drawn curtains before he started.

“It’s not your fault that this happened,” Jakes said, tracing the outer edge of a blue and purple bruise on Morse’s chest. “You know that, right?”

“I antagonized him,” Morse said. “I got all riled up when he called me a slut that thinks with his dick and yet is so proud of his intellect-“

“Saying that to you isn’t right,” Jakes said, trying to keep cool. “Or professional.”

“I know that I’m arrogant,” Morse said. “And bad with people. Heaven knows that I do. But that felt like an attack on you too and he’d been saying shit like that all month, never giving me a moment’s rest.”

“He’s always been like that,” Jakes said. “Kept telling me that he would never trust me to go out his daughter or any nice girl like her. Making sure that I knew that I wasn’t good enough. Too flashy, too self-centered, too mean.”

Morse’s curls were even more shot with silver than they had been, the last time that Jakes had visited. They spread out on the pillow as he lay down properly.

“We don’t have to be good enough for him,” Jakes told Morse, seeing him tug at how his old nightshirt stretched a bit across his middle. He decided that he’d bring him a new one, next time he was in Oxford. Or even pop into a shop tomorrow and leave one on the bed. “We just have to be good enough for each other. And I think that we are.”

Morse stilled.

Jakes lay down properly beside him, covering them both with the duvet.

“I think so too,” Morse said, his voice low and rather shaky.

“Yeah?” Jakes asked, tilting his head and looking Morse right in the eyes.

“Yeah,” Morse said, looking back.

Jakes kissed him, stroking his thumb against the bruise on Morse’s jaw as gently as he could as he cupped his face with both hands. It was a long kiss, there was no need to hurry and no need to hide any more than they already were.

“When we’ve got our own house, I’ll try making lasagna,” Jakes said, when they pulled apart. “And we’ll have a bigger bed than this. With two duvets.”

“Big dreams, that,” Morse said, buttoning up his nightshirt. “I’m just hoping for a good radio and a place for my records.”

“One step at a time,” Jakes said, poking at his shoulder. “No rushing.”

Morse made a content sound, adjusting his pillow.

They lay there for a while in silence, listening to the wind outside. Jakes kissed the place where Morse’s neck met his shoulder, keeping close so that Morse would not start worrying about how small the bed was and how little room there was for them.

He didn’t like it when Morse’s cheeks became hollowed and his ribs visible. But he also knew to be careful not to trace the stretch marks and scars on Morse’s sides and middle unless Morse explicitly asked him to.

“I’ll ask around,” Morse said, his voice quiet. “Find some students to tutor in English literature, maybe some basic Latin.”

“Hm,” Jakes agreed. “Good.”

“I’ll type up my resignation letter as soon as I’ve got another steady job,” Morse said. “Get that teaching certificate.”

Jakes said nothing, waiting.

“And not let them drag me back when they get into trouble because they can’t solve a case without my help,” Morse kept going. “If they want me around, they should have treated me better, the bastards.”

“That’s right,” Jakes said. “Goodnight, Endeavour.”

He imagined the resigned but pleased look on Bright’s face, the understanding in his eyes. Jakes had lost count of how many times Bright had asked him to look after Morse.

“Good night, Peter,” Morse said.

Jakes hummed in response, so used to being called Inspector Jakes that there were months were he barely heard his own first name spoken by anyone at all.

It was good to know that they’d have all of Sunday to themselves. Even after all this time, he still wasn’t used to Morse. There were always new things to discover and experience, his breath always caught a little when he saw how the morning light clung to Morse’s curls.

He’d found the extra cigarettes in his jacket pockets, he’d accepted the freshly brewed cups of coffee when Morse had stayed at his nick. His new Chief Super never asked him to elaborate much about his fiancée and there was a knowing look in his eyes after he’d seen Jakes and Morse work together.

There just might be more acceptance in the world than he’d allowed himself to hope for. And more luck, too.

And it turned out that there was, because Jakes was waiting by the car outside the station in Oxford on the sunny day that Morse left the police for good, having secured a good job teaching Classics. The light in his eyes might just have outshone the sun when he made his way back to the parking lot and grinned at Jakes.

“We deserve this,” Morse said, when Jakes started the car and the scent of peonies and wildflowers wafted through the open windows. “After all this trouble. We deserve something good.”

He took Jakes’s hand as they slid into traffic, the gold ring gleaming on his finger. And didn’t let go the whole way home.

**Author's Note:**

> Why does this pairing have such a grip on my soul, dear reader?
> 
> I do not know, but I cannot stop writing about them.


End file.
